Watching Slow Torture

That became obvious within the first 10 minutes in his presence again.

I can’t bear the extreme cruelty, the manipulation, the constant reminders that he is dying and that I should be the dutiful daughter by his side and at the same time, turning up the TV so loud that he drowns out my voice in conversation. My throat is sore from trying to talk over his TV. He lets me know that the inane crap on TV is more important than anything I have to say. He makes sure I can’t get a moment’s peace to talk with my mama. Or more importantly, that she can’t get a moment to talk with me.

I can’t just witness what he’s doing to her without saying something. I talk back. He can’t beat me now for talking back. He’s weak. I could knock him over with little more than a look.

I can’t rein in my anger at his desperate and torturous attempts to control everything and everyone in his sight—and out of it. And that he does, and what it’s doing to them. He is a tyrant. Bedridden and housebound, but he’s always been a tyrant and always will be.

Walk away, I tell her. But she won’t. She’ll crawl to her grave but still be his servant.

But I can walk away. Come daybreak, I will.

Tonight, I want to run away, to get out in the dark and the rain and sink my feet into the grass and become one with the Earth and regain my tranquility. But I don’t.

Instead, I keep thinking how much I’d like to break a chair over his head right now.